


Transit

by catharticsamuel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Dean has an anxiety disorder, It's a normal au gone wrong, M/M, Sam Has Issues, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, They will do the sex, Wincest - Freeform, don't we all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8777857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharticsamuel/pseuds/catharticsamuel
Summary: AU- Sam basically becomes a thug with low self esteem and Dean's an anxiety ridden co-business owner. It's been six years from John and Mary dying in a house fire and after that they both don't know how to deal or cope, instead of sticking together they split apart, Dean trying to get Sam back when he wants to be left alone. This fic starts when Sam finally accepts come back to live with Dean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when I'll be updating this fic but it will have chapters. My tumblr is catharticsamuel, I might not be too active on there as of late but wincest is still my number one. I'll try to write for this as much as I can, but I can;t promise anything. Hope you enjoy.

It’s a warm afternoon. The sun shines over green green grasses and brick buildings that burn at the touch. Roof tops don’t get it much easier. There aren’t many clouds in the sky, the ones that exist look thin and wispy. Being outside long enough means you will sweat even if you choose not to leave the shade. Wind comes and goes, but for the most part it’s a dry heat. The day is brutal, rays of sun are relentless, it’s summer. 

Dean’s blouse sticks to him. It’s disgusting. He’s sure the sweat stains on his lower back, between his shoulder blades, and armpits are visible. Dean isn’t precipitating because it’s one hundred and two degrees out today, it’s because he’s going to see Sam. He’s nervous, and when Dean gets nervous he sweats. Which is fairly often. Dean getting nervous, that is. He’s dizzy. Woosey, especially in the triceps, his calves. Everything's too much, it’s too hot. He can’t leave. Leaving means it will go away. But. He has to stay. Dean has to stay.

It makes driving worse. He has to be alone. Buildings grow colorless and dull with each passing neighborhood. More and more houses look abounded with each new street Dean turns on. Broken windows, boarded windows. Businesses are condemned and closed with bland signs and shitty spray paint that obviously has faded away along with time. 

Dean parks in front of an apartment complex. It’s crap. It needs heavy repairing. If there weren’t cars sparsed out on the road Dean would have thought this entire place was a ghost town. His chest stirs, something underneath his skin tugs and it clenches. Sam’s here. This is where he lives. This is where Sam ran off too. 

Dean’s here to get him. After another two years of trying to track a guy who doesn’t want to be found, Dean’s got him. They’ve been doing this since Sam was seventeen, what’s the rush?

Dean finds the door two zero nine. Two zero nine, two zero nine. The painted numbers are chipped, cracked. It looks ugly. This is now an ugly number.

He’s gentle when he presses a knuckle to the wood. He can leave, he can retreat. Back down the three flights of stairs, they haven’t vanished. He can go. There is an escape. Sam doesn’t want him here. 

Dean draws back his hand and knocks twice. One, two, is casual. He taps four more times after a deafening moment. 

Dean counts twenty seven seconds before the knob twists and the door opens. 

Sam is heartbreaking. It hurts to look at him. Dean lifts a hand but forces himself to quit it before he touches. His brother is tired, navy blue makes itself at home under his eyes. Sam’s hair has grown. It’s long and ends past his shoulders, a thick wavy chestnut brown to complement glistening hazel eyes. Sam hasn’t gotten taller. Six foot five as always, but he’s bulked up a bit. Sam looks meaty, yet malnourished all the same. 

“Dean.” Sam’s mouth moves but only ‘-ean’ comes. He clears his throat and tries again. “Found me.” He’s not happy. He isn’t angry. 

Dean stays silent. Sam squirms under the gaze and figures how pointless this is and turns to waddle back into his apartment, leaving the door open. Dean takes that as his invitation and closes the door quietly after himself. 

Inside it is a mess. Clothes are everywhere. Empty plastic bags, paper bags, empty bottles, ones that are half full. Beers and whiskey, Jack Daniels. Vodka. There’s a cigarette tray on the beat up coffee table. There is no television. The kitchen is untouched and dusty and Dean is suffocating. It’s hard to breathe. Sam takes a seat at his small dining room table and supports his heady head with a palm. Dean stays in the kitchen since it’s the only place he can move a couple of inches without stepping on something. 

“I couldn’t for two years. You jumped around.” Dean explains. Sam shifts his head to watch him pull out something. A pot. “Hiding from me. You did a good job there.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything.

“But I guess you stayed here.” Dean gestures to the oh so wonderful stained wall paper peelings.

“I didn’t realize it’s been a full year.” For Sam, it’s only felt like a few months.

Dean nods, he’s not looking at his little brother. He’s busy making the box of instant mac’n’cheese he’s found in the cabinet. “Stable job?”

“You could say that.” Years apart and Dean might as well know Sam like the back of his hand. It’s pathetic, Sam’s pathetic. 

They don’t talk again until Dean has put a steaming bowl of cheesy noodles in front of Sam. Dean takes the other chair to Sam’s left. The only light on other than the red and orange from the setting sun streaking through the blinds into the shit flat is the kitchen’s. It spills over the back of Dean’s shoulders and hair, colorless and only for what it is, visual aid from a cheap bulb. The front of him is dark, a shadow despite the sun’s colors reaching Sam’s right thigh, giving a lukewarm kiss. It reaches to such a small part of him, completely missing the rest of his body. Dean’s too far away and he’s never really worn vibrant shades since the fire.

Sam isn’t sure if he’s hungry or not. He scoops a forkful into his mouth and swallows. It’s rich in taste. Dean’s bowl might as well disappear into thin air because he doesn’t touch it. Sam knows this song and he’s danced to it for what feels like a thousand times.

The chorus hits, “I want you to come back with me.” 

Sam doesn’t deserve him. God, Sam doesn’t fucking deserve him. 

“No, you don’t.” Dean doesn’t know it, but it’s true. 

“But I do.” Sam’s brother is nonstop. He won’t leave Sam alone as long as he’s alive.

“You don’t know what I’ve been doing, Dean. I’ve got shit to take care of.”

Dean’s eyes are a brilliant green. They are wide and they are beautiful. “Please come back with me.” Dean’s voice is hoarse when he whispers. Sam can break him, Dean’s so delicate.

“Got stuff that can’t go unfinished.”

Dean is helpless, “you have too.”

This is it, though. He’s been waiting for this. “Yeah, Dean. Okay.”

Dean stops. He’s a picture, frozen, a perfect statue. Then his eyes flick down, erupting the illusion, and back to Sam. “You… W- okay.” Okay. Holy shit. Okay. Dean sits up impossibly straight, nodding, awe-struck. “Okay.”

They’re both quiet as Sam finishes his bowl. 

Dean helps Sam shove everything into a duffel. Whatever clothes fit go, and that’s all Sam really has. Pants, shirts, underwear. Not many of them either. 

Dean’s ecstatic. He expected a lot more shouting, a lot more tears, but Sam hadn’t put up much of a fight. Sam wants to come. This is a revelation. Dean could cry, he wants to hug his brother and never let go. Instead, Dean drives them back to his place.

He’s not sure what to say. Dean’s never been good with words. Sometimes he talks too much and too fast, other times he can’t get a single sound out. It’s fucking exhausting. Sam’s no better. He broods, keeps everything in and gives grunts as an answer. He was such a moody teenager. 

\-- ▪ ▫--

It’s like bringing home a new puppy. Dean doesn’t know what to do because one, Dean’s never owned a dog let alone one that’s a baby and two, this is surreal. He’s done this countless of times before. Locating Sam, finding him in some off the map town, confronting him, begging and begging for him to please come and live with me. Sam saying no, Dean, you’re not Dad, can’t tell me what to do. We’re adults, I’m living my life. Fuck off, let me drag myself down if that’s what I want to do, stop looking for me. It’s better this way. Cue Sam storming out of his own home.

Sam looks so out of place, and Dean’s kind of loving it. He’s big and he’s hunched up in the corner by the door, watching the polished wooden furniture in case they bite. Dean’s complex looks like it came right out of a home decorating magazine. 

“This… this is the living room.” Dean gestures lamely in the air. He holds his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting down a smile.

“You’ve really made something for yourself.” It’s soft but audible. 

“The guest room is this way. Or, your room.” Dean leads them further into his flat. “That’s my room, then this is the bathroom, and here’s your room.” Dean opens the third door. He saunters in knowing Sam’s following. There’s a king sized bed and dresser with a large mirror sitting on it. A large closet, chair by the double windows, and a flat screen is mounted onto the wall opposite of the headboard. 

All of a sudden Sam feels uninvited. This isn’t really his, and he’s not sure if it will ever feel that way. 

Dean’s hands find themselves. He grabs at a thumb and squeezes lightly. “All yours,” Dean finds himself saying. “Over time you’ll make it work, but this is how you start out.”

It looks like a room for a grandmother’s love, really.

\-- ▪ ▫--

Once Sam gets introduced to the kitchen they both somehow end up on the couch. Dean’s plasma 46 inch flat screen is on, some comedy plays and Sam’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. When he turns to Dean something seems off. Everything comes slow, as if he’s under water. It feels thick, when he stretches an arm out to touch Dean’s shoulder it’s strange. His fingers sink into soft flesh under a soft shirt. It feels wet, warm. It must be uncomfortable, so he tries to take it off. Dean looks at Sam with a quirked a brow, like he’s in a daze, eyes lidded… and blue. The heel of his palm presses on Sam’s wrist then skims to his elbow. Dean’s fingers touch Sam’s collarbone and he’s practically in his lap. Sam notices that Dean is saying something, his lips part, tongue flicking from pronouncing different letters and Sam stares. 

Pink. They’re swollen, a bubblegum color. Sam taps Dean’s chin. “Uh huh,” he’s saying, but he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing with. His brother’s mouth smiles a Cheshire grin, eerily delighted but Sam’s enamored. It freaks him out a little, whatever this is, it’s overwhelming.

Dean is still talking. A pastel tongue peeks out, Sam’s vaguely aware that his pointer and middle of his left hand has made it inside Dean’s mouth somehow. It’s inviting, tepid, calling for him without a sound. And this is fucking weird but Sam’s really into it. Dean speaks but it’s muffled, without hearing a thing Sam understands how it would sound. The words common sense pop up, Dean laughs, Sam has said it out loud.

Sam’s petting Dean’s tongue. Saliva coats his fingers and leaks down in between them. It’s flat, pleasantly slimy, and smooth, Sam wants to taste so he leans in and tilts his head, opens wide and sticks his tongue in too fast, he’s too excited suddenly. Everything stops being slow and starts speeding up. His fingers don’t move, Sam kisses them while trying to fuck his older brother’s mouth with his tongue, all the while Dean hasn’t shut up. It feels clean. Dean’s rosy where it counts, it looks like he’s wearing lip-gloss that he decided to lick at too.

The ceiling is disgustingly white. It’s spotless like the rug, Sam’s really confused for five seconds. 

Sam sits up and places a shaky hand on one of the couch pillows. Oh, he was dreaming. It definitely was surreal enough, course it was a dream. Right. 

Fucking wild dream. Sam lets himself swim around the post-sleep weighing down his body. 

Where’s Dean anyway? Sam takes his time. He doesn’t remember falling asleep or lying down for that matter. The fuck. 

He notices how nice it is to put his bare feet on carpet. It isn’t cold like the wooden creaky floors he’s used too. The kitchen has diamond tiles, those are freezing to step on. He doesn’t since Dean isn’t there. He’s not in his bedroom either, Sam calls and opens the door when there’s not an answer. He’s curious to see Dean’s domain. It’s neat, which is expected, but the bed’s made. The rest of the room looks awfully organized.

There’s a hallway Sam hadn’t ventured in last night. The room past it has a light on, Sam walks through to find Dean sitting in a chair at a computer. Papers overlap each other in a way Sam would call pretentious. It’s perfectly straight with the page under it in the same exact position and place, just a few inches to the right. 

Dean doesn’t react when Sam enters, or ignores him, because he’s typing away while simultaneously writing down on a piece of scrap paper, taking notes. His handwriting is light and thin, but Sam can’t read the words. They’re blurry to him, yet he is about two steps away. 

“Dean?” Sam asks. He is not sure how Dean’s been recently, or… for the past few years. Guilt will plague him like a rotting corpse for the next month.

Like it hasn’t been already.

Dean stops immediately. He twists so that he faces Sam. His eyes are glassy. He’s been staring at a monitor all night long. 

“Jesus, did you go to bed?”

Dean’s eyes dart to the side then come back to him. “No.” At least he’s honest.

Sam breathes out deeply. Yeah, he remembers Dean being a little something like this. 

Dean shakes his head and stands. The pencil drops from his grip too, “it’s early. I’m going to make breakfast since you’re up.” Dean nods this time, agreeing with himself like that was the best thing to do. Immediately. Right now. He walks straight out the room. 

Sam follows at a slower pace. Dean is wearing the same blouse and slacks he wore while he was picking Sam up yesterday. He hasn’t showered either. Sam takes a moment to study his brother. He looks thin. Really thin. 

Dean’s pretty much the same, then. If not worse. “How… how are you?” This is going to take some getting used too. For the both of them. Being together again. They are not entirely sure how to act around each other. It’s too new and long overdue. Too fragile. Dean has obviously made something of himself while Sam dove off the depend into God knows where. 

It’s been five years. 

Sam’s stomach churns. 

Dean’s got the eggs and bacon out. He sets a pan on the stove and lights it up, putting the flame on low. In his peripheral vision Sam stands far away. He isn’t sure why so he turns to the table and pulls out a chair and gestures for Sam to sit. His brother does, but he’s being shy. Kind of, Dean doesn’t know what to make of it. Sam has his head bowed, shoulders bunched up as he slouches, trying to make himself shorter almost. No, smaller. He’s always been pretty big since he was sixteen. 

“I’ve been good.” Dean answers as he goes back to greasing the pan with butter before cracking three eggs. They fall lazily from the shell to the black surface and sizzle softly. Dean grabs for the spatula before pulling out another big pan from under the utensil drawer to get started on the bacon. “And you?”

Sam does a one shoulder shrug, all of his attention is on his lap where his hands are. “Good.” It’s a lie, they’re both lying. It’s been hell. 

The eggs taste perfect. They’re salty but not to the excessive extent some diners do. The bacon is crispy and brown. Sam can’t remember the last time he’s had breakfast during actual morning. He wonders if every day will be like this. 

Dean settles in the chair across from Sam. This is where he can really look at his little brother. His arms are heavily detailed with ink. He’s got sleeves. Tattoos cover his shoulders and wind down all the way to his fingers. 

He’s also got a beard going on.

“I’m working here, home the next few days.” Dean begins. “But we’ll have time. I’m doing your laundry, we’re going out to get you more clothes. You’ll need suits for the office.”

“Suits for the office what?” ‘I already have a job’ doesn’t make it. Even though yesterday Sam was handling an AK 47 he knows that’s done and over with for good. 

He lets himself wonder if Joe is going to be pissed with his sudden disappearance. The spot calling for a worthy employee the boss can put all his trust in opened right back up. He was pretty much in the position of a general. Not the head of everything, but he had his own battalion. Joe might not like Sam backing out, splitting, calling a quits, leaving. Sam also lets himself wonder if he really cares. He's about a state away. Hours away. He doesn't even have a phone, too much of a risk. Dean wasn't allowed to have any sort of contact, Sam was too toxic and Dean had too much love to give that Sam didn't deserve. They were the only family they got who new what the other was dealing with. Not like that stopped Dean though, and his older brother was hurting more than Sam needed to know- he was causing that. Why Dean was as bad as he was now was because of Sam. (Not all of it, but a good amount of the blame was his). Besides; they were both fucking stupid, fives years pass and here Sam is, letting every selfless act of letting Dean go and be free of him destroyed. Dean wanted to take care of the burden, fine. Sam'll let him.

Dean is completely and annoyingly calm when he says “you’re going to get a job at where I work.”

The thing is, Sam can’t really argue. He should have expected this. 

Either Dean’s exhausted or Sam is, because talking isn’t such a popular thing between them.

Sam knows Dean’s exhausted, though. 

Sam showers before Dean. There’s shampoo that smells like mint and pine. The body wash smells like blueberries. 

After stepping into a fresh red and black plaid button up and thin light blue jeans, Sam’s feeling more like himself. Less depressed and less like a emo-y teenager.

While Dean’s in the shower, Sam does the dishes. He scuttles back to the laundry room to put on a pair of socks and shoes are next. Dean take a quicker shower than him, is even faster getting dressed. Sam doesn’t understand how there aren’t dark circles under his eyes, he looks… fine. His all nighter doesn’t show.

“Ready when you are,” Sam tells him. Nods once, more for himself.

Dean’s nods back at a higher frequency.

Dean takes them to the mall. It’s not very crowded outside of the shops but nearly deserted when they go into Macy’s. It's early.

“Here?” Sam lazily flicks a wrist to the polished glass counters. “Don’t know if this is my style.”

“We’ll see if anything here is good. If not, we’re on to the next store.” Dean explains as if it’s that simple. They both hate clothes shopping.

The thing is, Sam doesn’t want his brother buying him clothes. He should be paying for his own shit. But this is where they are, Sam’s a fucking deadbeat punk and Dean’s got enough money to splurge on his little brother. 

Dean leads over to the formal stuff. Sam wanders around and checks out the larger sizes. Half of this stuff isn’t bad, but even the causal feels like fancy casual. Apparently that’s a real thing. He finds simple t-shirts, they come in every color and are only twelve bucks a pop. He grabs a black one, blue, green, red, and purple. 

Dean came over with a couple of pairs of pants for him to try on, some blouses.

For the first time, in a long time, Sam starts to feel like himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I might change the title, I don't know man.


End file.
